‘Yes, I’m OK.’ I nod back. This has become our little ritual. He gauges my emotional temperature. In some ways the sessions get easier and in others they get harder. I’m more prepared than I was the first day of the initial shock, but it still breaks my heart to think of everything Lola’s going through at such a young age.

Kate answers the door with a warm greeting and Lola is sat on the sofa in her usual spot. We pull out our stools and sit down opposite her.

‘Hi, Lola, what have you been up to this week?’ Every week I ask, and every week I hope she answers.

When she doesn’t Arnold fills the silence.

‘We’ve brought a good selection of books today. Would you like to pick one or shall we choose something for you?’

I root around the box of books and pull out one of the ones I’ve included.

‘OK,’ I say, holding the book to show her the title, Rusty and the Memory Jar. I open the first page and begin to read the story of a young squirrel whose grandfather has just died. I start to get nervous that maybe it’s a terrible idea, but Arnold nods in encouragement. ‘Rusty was worried, Rusty was scared. What if he forgot Grandpa and all the memories they’d shared?’

I glance at Lola whose eyes are open wide and I turn the page.

‘His mum gave him a jam jar and told him to go fishing, but when he was there he thought of his grandad and all he was missing.

‘He sat on a rock and looked out on to the stream. Remembering when he caught a fish and his grandpa’s smile would beam.’

A couple of times words get stuck in my throat as I turn the pages and we learn how Rusty went to all the parts of the forest with his jar and, on remembering memories of his grandpa, he wrote each one down and placed it in his jar, which he hung on a branch on his room so that he knew he’d never forget.

When I stop reading I chance a look at Lola but she remains as quiet as ever.

‘That was a beautiful story,’ says Arnold, and I notice that he’s a little choked up.

‘It really was.’ I didn’t expect it to move me in the way it did. ‘What a lovely thing to do. I wish that I’d done that when my mum died.’

I wasn’t thinking of Lola when I said it. Every year I have to work harder to hold on to memories.

‘Your mum died?’ Her voice is high and pitchy, and I’m so startled she’s spoken that I stutter a reply.

‘Yes, quite a long time ago now. I miss her very much.’